The Code
by Dingbat142001
Summary: Oneshot. There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... Castfic. First FP fic. Be nice. Dedicated to leftninja.


**Title:** The Code

**Rating:** FRT  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Just the idea.  
**Spoilers:** None that I can think of.  
**Summary: **Oneshot. There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... Castfic.

I am a proud Canadian girl who absolutely loves Canadian broadcasting companies and our commercials. Timmies, Molson Canadian, Canadian Tire, you name it, I love it. I saw this commercial one night while watching Hockey Night In Canada - Yes, I will admit to being a Leafs fan - and boom, inspiration was born.

Various scenarios. Tried to be as accurate as possible with characterizations and facts. Not sure if I succeed tho, 'cause really, they're just short blurbies about their lives, and not long enough to fully address behaviors.

**Some are only vaguely accurate. Sorry. I tend to interpret things as others' might not. I tried to be out of the box.**

**I do not drink Molson Canadian (or any alcoholic beverage, tho I am of age), and am in no way endorsing this product.**

**This is dedicated to my best friend. She recommended that I check out Flashpoint. She knew I'd get obsessed :P Thank you!**

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... __**you have a hockey scar somewhere…**_

"Eddie, dinner's ready."

Cringing at the use of his mother's pet name, Ed gripped the shaft of his stick tighter in his hands, weaving around the right winger in a Bruins' jersey, and quickly dodging a weak forecheck by the apposing player. Slowing down, he made a sharp turn as a Sens' jersey came flying at him, and he pivoted on the tail of his skate blade.

"Ed, dinner!" his mother yelled again from where she was standing on the porch across the street. Without moving his eyes from the puck, Ed just knew her hands were on her hips. Advancing towards the goalie in a Habs sweater, Ed made his move, putting his weight onto the stick and…

"Edward Anthony Lane, get your butt in gear before I-"

Crack!

Collapsing where he stood, Ed gripped his shin as a sharp pain shot threw the limb. Having this happen a few other times before, Ed knew the Ref would be calling a Slashing penalty…that was, if the 8 boys on the pond had remembered to name a Ref. Pulling up his pant leg, and down his hockey socks, he examined that steady trickle of blood seeping towards his skates.

That was gonna leave a mark.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere,_ _**you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip…**_

Hanging his arm out the window of his 1992 Toyota Supra Turbo, Sam shook his fist to the beat of yet another Steppenwolf classic blaring from the radio. Wind from the opened car window blew what was left of his rough looking crew cut, and for the first time in his life, he actually wished he had longer hair, in the semblance of the 60s rockers assaulting his eardrums.

"_Like a true nature's child  
We were born, born to be wild…"_

Singing, or more of shouting, at the top of his lungs, Sam glanced to his right at Johnny Jackson sitting in the passengers' seat. Jax, as he was called by the unit, slouched in his seat as he used his empty, plastic Mountain Dew bottle as a drumstick against the door panel, only to be distracted by a flying peanut hitting him in the back of the head. Looking in his rearview mirror, Sam laughed at the innocent look of Dustin Connors, D.C. as he was known, as he wiped peanut skins off his CFB Petawawa t-shirt onto the ratty seat cushion beside him.

Glancing down at the dashboard, Sam silently thanked whatever engine Gods were smiling down on him. His baby, Rhonda as she was named, was on her last legs. It was a miracle within itself that she was still alive, 50 clicks from finale destination, Kapuskasing.

Ignoring a warning voice somewhere in the back of his head that told him to hold his breath, Sam continued to sing.

"_We can climb so high  
I never wanna die..."_

Was it poetic justice that she chose that exact moment to spew smoke from the engine? Sam couldn't say.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip,_ _**you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player…**_

When you're a Cop, silence isn't a good thing. It puts you on edge, maybe even a little jittery, and makes you second guess every sound, every action, every option you have.

But at the front desk of the SRU, silence is a good thing. No, the building itself isn't exactly quiet, with Sgt. Parker running drills with his team, or Scarlatti testing something technical with Babycakes, or the other comfortable ruckus of policemen (or women) working on this, that, or the other thing that passes the time until the next call, but it's a silence that means no one's in danger, and no one is making trouble.

Sitting at her desk, she's dutifully typing away at her latest report when her eyes drift to the contents of said desk. As the desk is communal, it's not littered with her own paraphernalia, just a collection of random doodads from each front clerk. Six different coffee cups are in different stages of emptiness, her own, almost drained, piles of paperwork and manuals lie among staplers, 3 sets of headphones, 20 some-odd pens, and a few sporadic photographs taped to the back lip of the countertop.

One of these pictures is of herself and three fellow dispatch ladies. Three are wearing Toronto Maple Leaf jersey's while the odd one out is decked in Boston's black and yellow. Last time Leafs hosted Bruins they went to the game, they screamed, they ate, they drank, and then drank some more at a local pub.

When Miss Boston (swearing secrecy not to tell a soul of said events) disappeared with a mysterious male, no one thought much about it. That was until 2 years later when anonymous male was seen mouthing profanities from the penalty box on CBC's broadcasting of a Kings/Stars game.

Shame, would have been a great story to tell.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player,_ _**you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane…**_

"…and that's my great-granddaughter Abigail, we call her Abby for short…"

Spike nodded and 'uh huh'ed at the appropriate times as the woman beside him turned through the massive cache of personal photos hiding between the pockets of her purse. It had been this way since he departed out of Pearson two hours ago, and the nice guy he was went along for the ride.

"…she just turned 3 last month. My, how she's grown. I remember…"

Spike nodded again and briefly glanced out the window just over the woman's shoulder. The Atlantic Ocean was probably below him, with the cloud coverage it was hard to tell, but what else lay between North America and Treviso, Italy? Yeah, nothing. So there he was, sitting drowsily beside an elder grandma, on his way to visit his own elderly Nonna in her 93rd year.

"…oh she was the cutest thing. Not that all my great-grandbabies aren't adorable…"

Nodding sluggishly, he propped his head on his hand and stifled a yawn into his palm. With a standoff in the heart of T.O., the last 24 hours hadn't been the most relaxing.

"…and this… Oh, I'm sorry, dear."

Spike opened the eyes he didn't know he closed and sat up straight, a tad embarrassed.

"Oh no, my fault. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, quite alright, quite alright." She woman said, patting his arm, smiling gently at him. "You look tired. Why don't you try and sleep. We'll talk more when you wake."

Spike thanked the woman and swiveled his head around to look at the row of seats behind him to make sure he wasn't encroaching on someone else's comfort. A middle aged man, sitting with a novel in his hand, looked up from the text and smiled amusingly.

"I know, I would be tired too if I had to listen to that. Go ahead, son. Not bothered."

Thanking the man, Spike reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He was out in minutes.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player, you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane,_ _**you've used a cheese pickup line only because your buddy dared you to…**_

"No, man, I aint doing it." Lou shook his head adamantly.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I aint," Lewis said unwaveringly.

"You said you would," Scarlatti reminded him as he took a slow sip out of his glass.

Beside Spike, Wordy nodded his head and gestured towards him with his drink. "He's got a point."

Lou shook his head again in the negative "I said nothin'."

Spike threw a pistachio at him, "No, you said," bringing his hands up to curl his index and middle fingers in "and I quote 'I Lewis Young vow to swear over my soul to one Spike the Magnificent if I so much as scratch his precious Babycakes,' end quote."

Lou looked horrified across the table "'Spike the Magnificent'? Riight. You're so full of it, your eyes are brown."

Spike nodded, matter-of-factly, "Yes, they are, but that's beside the point."

Choosing that moment to join them, Ed and Greg sat their own spirit of choice on the table, and pulled out a seat beside Sam and Jules.

"You know, no where did he specifically say he'd do something stupid, however amusing the result may be," Parker observed, not exactly picking a side.

"But he _did_ sign over his soul," Sam clarified. "And that pretty much means a done deal."

To Sam's left, Jules snickered. "What are you, 8?"

Lou ignored them all and glared at Spike, who looked smug and unyielding.

What other choice did he have? He did accidentally topple Babycakes over in that training exercise that did kinda result in more than just a scratch, and he did sorta say that if anything happened to her…him…it… that he would be to blame. And well, around HQ it was a rule that you don't mess with Babycakes. Messing with the android was like messing with Spike's mom. You just don't do it.

Chugging the remaining contents of his glass, and what was left of his dignity; he stood, disregarding the now silently stunned table and moved toward a table where two women sat conversing in total oblivion.

From the SRU table, everyone watched as he approached the woman and seemed to speak.

Both women blinked, then cocked their heads to the side.

Then giggled.

The SRU table erupted.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player, you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane, you've used a cheese pickup line only because your buddy dared you to,_ _**you fill your friends' pint before your own…**_

Approaching the bar, Greg Parker sat on a stool, braced his elbows on the counter and turned to the patron to his left.

"You come here often?"

Beside him, Ed made no move to acknowledge him and continued to swirl around the dribbles of whatever white stuff that was remaining in the bottom of his glass.

"Okay," Parker nodded, sitting in silence as Ed wallowed in peace.

He had expected this.

Like clockwork, if something went wrong and they failed to 'keep the peace', Ed would do one of two things; one, go home to Sofia and Clark and do whatever it is he did there, or two, disappear. And by disappearing, it more of meant, go somewhere nobody knew about except for Greg.

Drawing the barkeep's attention towards him, Greg cocked his head in Ed's direction, indicating a refill.

"What's he drinking?" Greg asked.

The dingy club's keeper gave him a look, then produced a carton of milk from below the bar, and refilled the empty glass.

Looking blankly at the white liquid –it wasn't the first time Ed went to a bar and drank dairy products – Greg made no comment, and laid a ten on the countertop beside Ed's tumbler.

Sitting with his friend, Parker inclined his head to watch the TV screen mounted above the bar. Playoffs were on, and Pittsburgh had just broken a 2 game deficit on last year's Cup champions, and Cup rivals, Detroit. As a Torontonian, Leafs were proudly his first love, but like any other Canadian, if it was hockey, he'd watch it.

Half a period flickered by before Ed emptied his glass, and stood. Moving around his stool, he stopped and patted Greg's shoulder in a thank you.

As was usual, no words needed to be spoken. It was enough to sit by someone who already knew what you were going through, without having to explain the happenings, or your reasons for doing what you had to do.

Once Ed exited, Greg eyed the empty glass, then beckoned the barkeeper over again.

"I'll have some of that."

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player, you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane, you've used a cheese pickup line only because your buddy dared you to, you fill your friends' pint before your own,_ _**you think hockey tape can fix anything…**_

"You're laaate," was all Sgt. Parker said as Wordy sprinted by him, duffle bag in his hand.

"Sorry, Boss," Wordy directed to his CO, now behind him, as he made his way to the locker room. "Had an incident involving a Barbie and a toilet."

From somewhere else in the room, he vaguely heard Ed pipe in about the advantages of having a son, before entering the locker room and throwing his bag on the bench behind him. Quickly opening the lock, he shucked off his civilian khakis, t-shirt and flip-flop, and proceeded with equipping himself with SRU issue BDUs.

Black socks, grey pants, mid-shin-high combat boots, black t-shirt, black belt, grey tunic, black equipment vest, another utility belt (pre-packed), loaded thigh holster, other thigh emergency backup bag, knee pads, watch with compass and 24 hour time, and … that's it. Doing this at a fast pace was exhausting.

Turning from the locker, Kevin Wordsworth moved to throw his now empty bag in when a crisp riiiiip stopped any movement. Feeling a tug at his shin, he eyed the torn material of his BDUs as they snagged on the sharp corner at the base of the locker door.

"Great…" Wordy mumbled to himself. With his spare uniform at the drycleaners, he couldn't exactly change, and as late as he already was for Sarge's briefing, he wouldn't anyway, but he couldn't exactly go out with a 5 inch tear up his pant leg either.

A slap happy sew job couldn't work for a number of reasons, 1) he didn't have a needle and thread, 2) he didn't have the time, and 3) despite being in a house full of woman, (alright 1 woman, and his little princesses) he didn't know how to sew.

Thinking quickly, he brought to mind everything he had on his person. The only thing that could marginally work was… ah!

Remembering he had previously used his duffle as a temporary replacement when his hockey bag blew a zipper last weekend, Wordy found his solution. Riffling through the pockets, he hurriedly procured two roles of tape, one white, one black.

Ignoring the white, Wordy unspooled the inch wide tape and deftly wrapped it around his leg, loose enough to not obstruct the movement of cloth, tight enough to close the gap.

Satisfied with his McGyvering, he tossed the bag in his locker, made a wide berth around the locker door, closed it and when on his way.

Red Green would be proud… if only it was duct tape.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player, you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane, you've used a cheese pickup line only because your buddy dared you to, you fill your friends' pint before your own, you think hockey tape can fix anything,_ _**you've gotten kicked out of somewhere…**_

"I didn't do anything!" The petite woman yelled to the man at the back of her, holding her upper arm forcefully, and pushing her through the crowd. The big, burly man on her six merely grunted and continued to_ 'gently' _shove her towards the door.

Glaring at the other patrons as they passed, Jules attempted to wrench her arm from the bouncer, only to be gripped tighter, and be told, "I think you've had enough, ma'am."

_Oh no you didn't! _

Stopping dead in her tracks, Jules whirled around to give her _escort_ a piece of her mind, when he swiftly turned her around, led her to the door, opened it, and bodily moved her into the cold November air.

Glaring at the big bruiser, Jules righted her jacket.

"If you need a ride home, a cab will be provided-"

"I think I can manage," Jules said, cutting him off as snidely as she could muster. She wasn't one to be rude, especially to a man who a) she didn't know, and b) was only doing his job, but the events that had transpired made her angry, and just a tad volatile.

The bouncer gave her one last look before closing the door, and leaving her alone with the bitter cold, and the light flurries coating the ground.

Really. She hadn't meant to…ok, she did, but it wasn't in her plan when she decided to venture that evening. Knocking some idiot's teeth out wasn't how she envisioned spending the night, but God damnit, if you were gonna feel her up, at least ask first!

Her actions were justified, even if throwing him to the ground and using her foot to keep him there were a little over-the-top.

Pulling up her collar, her hand twinged a little as the knuckles moaned in pain from where her punch met idiotic man flesh.

But seeing the few tears of pain well up in his eyes, and the broken nose made it all worth it.

So very worth it.

* * *

_There's an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are... you have a hockey scar somewhere, you've gone on a road trip in a car that had no business going on a road trip, you're proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player, you feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane, you've used a cheese pickup line only because your buddy dared you to, you fill your friends' pint before your own, you think hockey tape can fix anything, you've gotten kicked out of somewhere,_ _**and you've turned down a booty-call in the post season.**_

The first Saturday in June had to be the worst day to work. As an officer of the law, it was expected that one would work horrible shifts, and be called in at any notice, but still, working Saturdays sucked the most.

Working late Saturday nights sucked even more when the first playoff game of the Stanley Cup Finals aired on CBC at 8PM, instead of every other possible day of the week.

It was a repeat of last year, so nothing to get terribly excited about; .Pens. versus Wings; Pittsburgh V Detroit; flightless birds against winged wheels. Some hoped the victor was the same as the year before, others, 64% said a CBC poll, hoped for a change.

But none of this mattered for those of the SRU.

Hockey Night In Canada, or not, they were still on duty, and even if no emergency's were called in, not at home with wives or girlfriends, or whatever you had, hoping for Saturday night dates. Of course, they understood, but no woman liked to be second to a) hockey, or b) work; no matter if it did bring in the money for said dates.

"Team One, suit up. Armed gunman at St Claire West subway tunnel; erratic behavior, possible drug use."

Upon hearing the call, all activities (reports, workout, training maneuvers etc.) were stopped, the mad routined rush of tactical officers commenced, and the appropriate phone calls were made to loved ones.

"Sorry, honey, got called out. Save the wine."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ Stereotype much? ;) :P

**Since it was a hockey commercial, most of these are centered around hockey. Accept it!** The one thing I like about Flashpoint the most is that they don't actually come out and say it's Canadian. I mean, it's obvious…isn't it? I guess, if you've lived under a rock your whole life, and had no clue as to what a Timmies cup looks like, or what our flag is, or where the CN tower is, then sure, I can see stumping someone, but you'd have to be …out of the loop…let's say, to not be able to tell. Btw, I love Babycakes, therefore one of my most beloved pieces of technology is featured quite a lot. Also, Spike is end all be all. He's funny, geeky, and hot. What else could a fellow Geek ask for?

Ficlet **1,** I made Ed's full name Edward Anthony, cause I'm currently all obsessed with Iron Man, and it's lead character Anthony Edward Stark. Deal!

Ficlet **2**, I don't remember if it was mentioned where Sam was stationed, so I just used the closest Canadian Army Base to me.

Ficlet **3,** Is any female dispatch. There was an odd number of scenarios, so I had one left over. I'd like to think Kira, cause I like her, but whoever.

Ficlet **5**, I'm not very witty, so I didn't make up any pick up line.

Ficlet **7**, Red Green, I should hope some people are familiar with him. You know, Possum Lodge? Keep your stick on the ice? If the women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy?

Ficlet **9**, A very broad definition of the sentence, but I was wanting to end on a team note.

Considering how short these are, this took an insane amount of time, of which I blame the muse. I know there are a bunch of different commercials and ads for 'The Code'. If I get enough positive feedback from this, I might attempt some more. Enjoy.


End file.
